Zombie Wastelands: Third Strain



Suggested Audio Candy


Megadeth “Skin ‘O My Teeth”



Okay so time for that bad news. You see, the once peaceful den of iniquity I find myself within has now descended into utter chaos. One of the patrons has just had his skull bitten into as if it was a fleshy nectarine and, while a small congregation feasts upon the remnants of his cranium, countless others are attempting to clamber over the top and in through the fissure their buddy hand-crafted. I can hear Otis frantically firing off rounds in the main bar as it appears as though a second breach is being fashioned. Even Bubba has removed his hand from its rummaging space to lend it to the cause (not before taking a crafty sniff of his digits mind). His brother is maniacally cackling as he advances to get his hands dirty, boner leading the way as he has just abandoned his private dancer. In fact, in all the hullabaloo the only folk who appear unperturbed are Ebony and Ivory who continue to gyrate up and down their poles, regardless of the fact that there are no punters and soon to be a fair few dozen famished zombies sniffing around their heels. Indeed, it appears as though the madness is only serving to moisten their gussets further. What a pair of rippers.


In the games room however, the tranquility has been well and truly shattered. Blind panic has set in for the remaining occupants as they frantically endeavor to uphold the fortifications. It’s looking as though it will turn out fruitless as the sheer wealth of walkers scrambling through the wooden orifice is causing the surrounding barracks to weaken considerably. Still appearing unfussed about the bedlam and more bothered by the fact that his game of pool has been so rudely interrupted, Mad Brad Potts finally looks up to meet my eye-contact. Now unless I’m mistaken, the ball’s in my court now, and I believe it is customary to offer a drink when so soundly starstruck.

“What’s Your Poison?”

After a short silence, presumably as he sizes me up, he replies with a slight smirk which accommodates the matchstick he has been chewing on the whole time.

“Bourbon with Beer Chaser”



Jesus this guy is hench. Strapping and built to last; he has clearly seen his fair share of bloody melee and it doesn’t appear to faze him in the slightest. Indeed, I’m feeling much less harassed by the flesh-crawlers after seeing his frame fully unfurled. Making my way back through the thick Cuban smoke and into the bar, I am instantly greeted by the sight of hapless Otis having a hefty fresh cavity fashioned into his forearm and, somewhat unsurprisingly, he looks a little jaded as he attempts to pull himself away from the gnashing incisors that have already nestled in around the marrow and appear to be making themselves more than at home.


“Someone fucking help me!”

It would appear that his cries have fallen on deaf ears as Clint has already reached for the blade which he keeps tucked inside the same socks he has worn for nigh on a week now.

“We gone have to take it off Otis”

I’d imagine that is not the solution he had hoped for but Otis knows it is the only feasible way of stopping the infection from spreading. Still grimacing, the bar owner offers up his limb for dismemberment, placing it down on the bar reluctantly.

“Now you be careful Clint, ya hear?”

No sooner has the last word been uttered than Clint begins carving through the tendons as though a thanksgiving turkey. His subject’s gargling screams do not perturb him, in fact, it appears he is gaining more than the necessary amount of glee from slicing through the cartilage.

Mongo copy

“Hey, hey Clint? You’re cutting it a bit high ain’t cha?”

It’s good to see Bubba intejecting although still with two digits resting underneath his flared nostrils.

“What have I gone told you before idiot, you gotta make sure”

With that, the hunting knife finally makes contact with the bar surface. He flicks the spurting appendage along the bar, firing a slug into it before it reaches the opposing end. Otis appears to have gone into catatonic shock, has pissed his slacks and, judging by the sudden aroma of undigested sirloin caked in feces, he may well have shit too.

“Bubba, take him to the basement. There’s no goddamn way he’s staying up here”

These words seem to pull Otis free from his frozen state as the grim realization sets in that his mommy dearest isn’t going to be the only cellar dweller in this establishment.


I stroll over to the bar as Bubba hoists Otis away and proceeds to kick him down the stone stairwell back into mommy’s welcoming bosom. Calmly I pour two drinks: one Bourbon with Beer Chaser for the man and Tequila on the rocks for me. I grab a salt shaker and lemon from the bar and walk around the vast puddle of cruor on my journey back to rejoin my compadre.

“That’s a lot of blood for just one iddy biddy scratch ain’t it?”

Very perceptive Clint. I provide him a half-hearted smirk which is about all I can muster at this point. I can see us coming to blows and wouldn’t trust this fucktard as far as I could wank him across a field but I shall remain poker-faced, for now at least, as there are far bigger fish for the frying.


As I once more enter the dense mist of the games room I give a cursory glance to Ebony and Ivory, who both appear totally indifferent to the events of the past few moments. I say that, when Ivory has her head burrowed into her lover’s snatch like a pig at feeding time and by the looks of Ebony, whose pupils are fluttering in the back of her skull with groaning glee, her etiquette leaves something to be desired. I’m tempted to leap into the fray like a gay salmon and honk me some hooters. However, after recalling Chasing Amy, I remember what a headache it proved for Ben Affleck trying to turn the tide and reluctantly decide to leave the girls to their feeding time. Thank the heavens for my photographic memory as this need not be a wasted venture after all and this exchange will play out somewhat differently in my imagination later.


Through the cloud I discern that Mad Brad Potts is no longer where I left him and all remaining regulars are strewn around, all missing one vital organ or another. One poor guy sprawled across the pool table has had his throat ripped open and his bloody splintered windpipe juts forth, crimson glugging out of the rather painful looking aperture. As for our zombie friends, well lets just say I may have to queue for the jukebox. I’m jolted by a blood-curdling scream from behind me and, as I spin around 180 like Chris Redfield, I spot Ebony convulsing. There don’t appear to be any breaks in her skin and the walkers aren’t even in her vicinity. Then it dawns on me, Ivory is clearly endowed with particularly strong tongue muscles. If that’s her cumming, then I perish to think of what would denote real fear or pain. Again, I peel myself away from Babette’s Feast and make my way deeper into the dense smoke, careful not to wander into the path of any famished dead heads.


I see the silhouette of Mad Brad Potts at the back of the room, signalling me forward with a nod and naturally I do not procrastinate in joining him. The survivors have all exited the main bar now and are heading upstairs to the attic as the odds are stacking against us fast. Evidently it looks the wise choice to follow, so follow I do. As I reach the comparatively quiet newly formed panic room, Potts kicks the door shut behind me and Bubba begins to hurl anything weighty enough in front of it to buy us some time. While dumb and dumber fortify the barracks and Ebony returns the favor and chows down on her partner, this gives me the exclusive opportunity to pitch my posers to Mad Brad. I hand him his requested tipple, take a seat facing him and fire away.

“I’m honored to make your acquaintance. Before we proceed, I’ve gotta ask you…why do they call you Mad Brad?”

I reckon I may be just about to find out you know.


Click here to read Final Strain



Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill


Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014




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